


wish we were heroes in the setting sun

by bulletthestars



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletthestars/pseuds/bulletthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was in incredible awe of him. I was fascinated by him. I think it was sexual to an extent, but I had no idea or any understanding of affection between men. I really gave him hero worship, and I recognised later what it was, but the feeling then was that I couldn't wait to just get near him... It was only years later that I understood I was incredibly in love with him."- Sal Mineo</p>
            </blockquote>





	wish we were heroes in the setting sun

You're seven and the new Formula One world champion, a German driver named Michael Schumacher is handing you your trophy. He's squatting down so that he's at your height and he's smiling at you, and your heart's still beating fast. You're not sure why, the race is already over, but maybe it's from the thrill of winning and it sure feels good. You take the trophy from him and he flashes you another grin, and you return his smile.

You tell yourself that someday, you're going to be like him. You're going to be up there, driving in Formula One, and you're going to win.

You're eight, driving round the circuit in your kart, heart in your mouth as you go round the corners. The track is wet, and you're the only one on slicks, while everyone else is driving on wet tyres. _I can do this_ , you tell yourself, gritting your teeth, and you heave a sigh of relief when your kart doesn't slide too far out across the circuit when you turn.

You're twelve, and here he is again, handing you your trophy and there's so much you want to say to him, so much you want to ask, howisitlikebeingaformulaonedriver or maybe howdoesitfeelinthecar or perhaps areyouafraidofcrashing but the words never make it out of your mouth, because you're terrified and awestruck and honoured all at once. So you end up smiling until your cheeks hurt and he pats your shoulder, telling you that you did a fantastic job.

And right there and then, your treacherous heart threatens to jump right out and present itself to him as you bask in the glow of his approval.

You're seventeen, and he has just won his seventh world driver's championship title. A potent mixture of pride and adoration wells up inside you, seeing his grin on the flickering television screen. It's history in the making, right in front of you, five years of domination with Ferrari, and it all seems like a dream, even to you, as a spectator. There're still four more races before the season's over, but it's sealed there and then, at Spa-Francorchamps, with him on the second step of the podium. The world champion.

It's never quite enough though, you're ridiculously happy for him, it's such a huge achievement but what wouldn't you give to be there too, to share his joy, just as he shared yours all those years ago. Some part of you longs to be beside him, but another part longs to match up to his greatness. Someday, you'll make it big. Someday.

In the blink of an eye, you're eighteen, racing in Formula Three. He's not racing in Formula One any more, but his legacy shines on, and when you're given the opportunity to test the Williams car, you feel it, the excitement running through your veins. You're one step closer to your dream, one step closer to being like him.

You're twenty, tightly gripping the steering wheel of your car at Wembley stadium. It's a year of firsts for you, the first time you're driving in Formula One, with Toro Rosso, and never did you ever imagine that someday, you would be driving in the same team as Michael Schumacher, representing Germany at the Race of Champions. Now that you've made it to the finals, you hope you won't mess up, you hope that it's going to be alright, and you tell yourself to breathe and hope things fall into place.

And they do, and you win, and you're downing champagne, sharing that top step of the podium with _Michael Schumacher_ , the man you've always looked up to. Your heart swells, you won this together and when you look at him, seeing the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles, your heart beats faster and you don't even know why.

(But you know that his smile, right here, right now, it's different from the ones he gives to the cameras, this one's just for you, and it sends a shiver down your spine because what wouldn't you give to see it one more time)

You're twenty one, and you're in Monza, sitting in your car, staring ahead as you wait for the lights to go out. You've just set the record for being the youngest polesitter, but now isn't the time to dwell on it, what's more important now is to keep your position in front. Fifty three laps, that's all it takes. You take a deep breath and you tell yourself that you can do this.

That's exactly what you do. You win the race, and the media is quick to dub you 'Baby Schumi'. But you don't want that. Or do you? You want to be like him, to achieve greatness just like he did, but at the same time, you want to be yourself. But still. _Baby Schumi_. It is something, and you are one step closer, and you swallow hard when you think of his touch on your shoulder, the warm, reassuring hand from so long ago.

He's back in the paddock. You aren't exactly reeling in shock; you're twenty two now, old enough to behave like a proper adult who knows that this isn't him being a driver in the paddock with you being a fan with an exclusive pass that brings you this close to the drivers. You're both race drivers here, on equal footing.

You were teammates at the Race of Champions. You tell yourself to play it cool, just like you've always done. He may be your childhood hero, he may be that teammate you'll never match up to but here, he's a rival on track. Yet you find yourself wanting to go nearer, because you want to see it again, that smile he had, just for you, even if it's only for one more time. But at the same time, you don't want to tip the scales. You're afraid that if you rock the boat, you'd sink it instead, so you keep your mouth shut, trying to pretend that everything's alright.

He cups your neck after you win in Abu Dhabi, because you're the second German to win the world title, and he looks at you with so much warmth and pride you feel like your heart's about to burst because you can't keep so much emotion inside you. The flash of the cameras around you is blinding, and you hear the sound of the shutters clicking, despite how you're trying to focus on what he's saying to you.

(But it sounds like 'congratulations' and 'you've done really well' and nothing more, and there's a sinking feeling in your heart as you try not to lean into his touch, and try not to remember that there's a ring on his fourth finger)

You're twenty three, and when you pull away from him, you tell yourself to get a grip. He's got his game face on now, smiling and charming the reporters all around him, but this version of him isn't the one you want, or is it? You're not quite sure, even after all these years, after seeing him both in private and in public and out there, putting on a mask in front of the media, you're still fascinated by each side of him he displays, and you're not quite sure of which one you want.

It troubles you, somewhat, and you push the sinking feeling away, trying hard not to let it overwhelm you.

Your relationship grows slowly over the years, blossoming into what may just be something more than a mere friendship after all, but you find yourself wanting more than this, needing more. You want more than just the occasional affectionate touches, and you find yourself swallowing hard when you feel his fingertips graze your skin. You want to draw closer, and you dream of pressing your head against his chest, hearing the steady sound of his heartbeat. You wake up, flustered and disorientated, shirt sticking to your skin, back slick with sweat. There's an ache inside you and it's an inexplicable sort of pain, because all you can think about is the warm touch of his hand and how you're probably not going to feel it the way you want to.

You're at Valencia, and it's been a long time coming but he's up there on the podium, his first, on the third year of his return to Formula One. Later on, you'll replay that part of the race video over and over again on your laptop, watching him on the podium. The race had been awful for you, you had retired with an alternator failure, but that isn't on your mind when you watch him on the podium, hands on the bottle of champagne. This isn't like the years before, he looks tired, and there's the frightening realisation within you that it has actually been _years_ , but he still looks like he hasn't aged a single day. Yet despite all this, the old magic still works, and your heart flutters for the first time in what feels like forever, just like it did when you were seventeen, watching him.

You're on the verge of winning your third world title and if you can pull through, it'll be a hat trick of wins, three championships in a row. You're on your way to achieving greatness, just like he did. Just a few more laps and he's in front of you, you've got to find a way to get past him but what you don't expect is for him to let you pass. You don't even know what this is but you take the chance and push it to the back of your mind, you'll dwell on it when the race is over, because the most important part is that you've gained another place.

The rain is pouring down from the sky, it's not too bad now, you're getting used to it already and-

Then the safety car comes out and all you've got to do is to follow it and _that's it_. You're in a state of disbelief, because this is the end, you're not going to be on the podium but you've done it. You made it.

He's the first person you run to and you hug him, it's brief but it's something and he's stroking the top of your helmet, with pride glowing in his eyes and your heart feels like it might burst right there and then. You try not to linger with him, you're well aware of the photographers surrounding you, so you pull away after patting his shoulder. And later on, when you turn back again, he's still there to congratulate you, with his helmet removed you can see that smile on his face, the one that you know is just for you. He swipes his finger across your helmet and you wish it wasn't your helmet but your lips that he touched, and more than ever, you just want to reach out to touch his lips, to feel them underneath your fingertips, to hear him say _Congratulations, I'm proud of you_ , looking at you only. So you turn away, pushing the feeling aside as you soak it up, the feeling of having won your third world driver's championship title. But still, it hurts, because you're not even sure what this is, this ridiculous state of confusion even though you've won, you fought hard the whole season and finally, here in Interlagos, you're the winner, but yet... But yet.

It's been slightly less than a month after Interlagos, you're twenty five and it's been years, so long, after the first day you met him, heart pounding hard against your ribs, almost unable to control your excitement when you saw him. None of you won the Champion of Champions title this year, but it's been a six years running now that you've taken the title for Germany together. He looks at you with a contented smile, with that light in his eyes and you stare at him, not quite knowing how to react.

Some part of your mind whispers _this is it_. It's now or never, he's not going to always be there at the paddock on race weekend because he's not racing in Formula One anymore, having retired this year. He may no longer be that unattainable hero to you, but you're no longer that kid with an awkward smile, too afraid to say something to him in fear of making a fool out of yourself. There's no one left to impress, but his glow's still there, he's still shining, and in your heart of hearts, you know that it's not just his approval you want. You still want to bask in his glory and approval, even if it's just for a while, but more than that, you know that you want him to wrap his arms around you and never let you go.

So you reach forward, fisting your hand in the material of his shirt. He looks shocked, but before he can protest, you lean in, and you kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> ★SILVIS THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT /WAILS
> 
> ★the quote right up there was the inspiration for this fic, and here, [background](http://jamesdeandaily.tumblr.com/post/35215976747).
> 
> ★finally here, have pictures! [schumi and vettel](http://pics.blameitonthevoices.com/112012/vettel_and_schumacher_94.jpg) [in 1994](http://sport365.hu/files/upload/image/Zseni%C3%A1lis%20Tekn%C5%91s%20%C3%9Ar/schumivettel1.jpg), [schumi and vettel](http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02021/vettel1_2021164a.jpg) [in 1999](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_me1p74LwLD1rc79mro1_500.png), [schumi and vettel winning the nations cup in roc in 2007](http://paddocktalk.com/news/html/modules/ew_filemanager/07images/roc/race/schumacher-vettel-win-638.jpg), [schumi cupping vettel's neck in 2010](http://news.bbc.co.uk/media/images/49938000/jpg/_49938099_schumacher_vettel_afp.jpg), [schumi and vettel through the years](http://i.imgur.com/BcF0g.png), [schumi and vettel after vettel won his 3rd world championship in 2012](http://www.autoweek.com/galleryimage/CW/20121125/F1/112509999/PH/1/8/Vetel-Schumacher-F1.jpg), [i don't even know what this is](http://www.yallaf1.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/141015510KR293_Australian_F.jpg) [and just omfg](http://nika_nsk.users.photofile.ru/photo/nika_nsk/115397843/129067177.jpg) O:
> 
> ★title from [wish we were heroes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKwwx5-NjzA).
> 
> ★and here, [mood music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BqtmXnQZ6Qk)!


End file.
